shifting mists
2003-08-01 10:27:24 (UTC)

resistance is futile...

I get so angry at mom sometimes... I don't understand why
she can't just leave things well enough alone... Why does
she find it necessary to prick and jab at topics and issues
she knows are not settled... at issues she knows never will
be. Why is it necessary for her to make light of that
great big elephant in the middle of the living room? Why
does she find it so necessary to negate the experiences of
my youth ... to negate my feelings and my memories? Is
there some reason she can't just keep her mouth shut and
pretend that the elephant doesn't exist like we all always
have for so many years? Is there some reason that if we
can't talk about it like adults... if we can't come to a
settlement of some kind on the issue that it can't remain
in the dark... unacknowledged.

Oddly I had thought I was over my anger at dad's charade...
It's been so many years since it's bothered me - his charm
and charisma rolling off him in waves to endear everyone to
him. It used to chafe so badly that no one could see the
person underneath ... that no one could see him for what he
really was and what he is and will always be. Someone said
to me once that men like him are the best at being so
charming and charismatic because of what they hide
beneath... so that no one would ever expect... so that even
if it came out in the open what he was, no one would ever
believe it. And it's true... that's exactly it.

I didn't think that this bothered me anymore... but I was
wrong. Watching him at my wedding with all those people...
watching him here... seeing him fool everyone, even Russ...
who knows about my past with my father... it burns deep
inside. It feels like the more people who believe in his
mask, the more my experiences and memories are
invalidated. I wish they weren't real... I hate that they
are... I wish it didn't feel like a big ball of glass
slivers grinding away inside.

I'm stressed again. I didn't realize how much until I
snapped at a customer tonight on the phone. I let him
anger me... get me worked up. Usually I just shrug it off
and hang up the phone. My ulcer is back and raging... it
makes me feel like I'm starving all the time, even after
I've just ate and am full.

I cried on the way home... I cried laying here in bed
trying to sleep... I'm crying again now. And I hate this
feeling of hopelessness and powerlessness. Worthlessness.

Sometimes when I feel this stress and resulting depression
coming on it's all I can do to not fall back on old
habits. They die hard, you know... the urge to not eat...
the urge to take comfort in the feeling of being hungry and
decreasing numbers on a scale.. It's all so addicting... so
tempting. And suddenly food just doesn't look appealing
anymore... nothing smells good enough to put in my mouth.
I know it's wrong and I fight the longing that comes upon
me to give in and take comfort in what I know is completely

I miss having a healthy back... though perhaps because of
it's injury I have been forced to learn a more healthy way
of dealing with things (not that that helps much when I'm
not in therapy anyway). I used to use adrenaline as a
rush... a huge cataclysmic emotional push. Risk your life
and feel more alive that ever for doing it. Challenge your
safety net and bounce back stronger and more exhilarated
than ever. Push for the ultimate rush and during it's
onslaught everything else is pushed away. I daydream about
adrenaline rushes now... and miss them desperately.

My mind still dips and dabbles in suicide of course...
can't be leaving that out. It's the other topic of my
daydreams after all... planning and executing hundreds of
scenarios in my mind... looking for the best... looking for
the painless perfect way to exit through that forbidden
escape hatch. I think sometimes if I was male that I
probably would have succeeded in one of my two past
attempts. Men, after all, statistically go for the more
sure-fire options... they don't seem to concern themselves
so much about the messiness of their plan or the pain..
women do.

I wish there was someone to talk to... someone who
understood. But there's not... and talking about it with
anyone besides a professional only makes me feel stupid...
more invalidated than ever... whiny... crazy. Sometimes I
wonder about that last one.

I was hoping if I sat here on the floor with this keyboard
that it would help.

Apparently I was wrong... it's time to go back to bed.